Grand Slam (12 page)

Standing in the lift at work, I patted my chest, which, under my suit jacket, was covered by a high-neck T-shirt. And under the T-shirt, my fake Emilio Méndez lucky charm. They really were quite good quality. Quite nice in fact. I wondered if Emilio would be able to tell through the T-shirt that it wasn't the real charm? My life would be over if he did.

Charlotte was already there, diligently rearranging my paperclips. She was dressed like me: gunmetal grey suit and T-shirt; hers was black, mine was white.

‘Journalists keep calling. I gave them your mobile.'

‘Gee, thanks.'

‘They think you're his girlfriend.' She gave me an accusing look.

‘It's not like I meant it.'

I checked my watch. Not much time to get work done before I had to meet Emilio. The charity lunch was to be held at Rod Laver Arena itself, in one of the giant corporate marquees. JD had insisted I'd enjoy it, after Emilio had called him first thing this morning to complain that I wasn't giving him enough attention, even though he was very happy with the newspapers this morning. JD was also very happy with the newspapers this morning, and wanted me to continue on my brilliant PR mission to distract the public from the human and environmental horrors caused by our company.

I also had an email from
The Saturday Morning Show
's producer with details for tomorrow morning, and one from Rosalind suggesting my real hair would be ‘less tacky' to wear to the lunch. I wore the wig.

Emilio wanted me to meet him at his hotel so we could go together, and he told me I was privileged to be sitting at his table – which meant I couldn't sneak off. At least it was for a worthy cause, so that made me feel a bit better about everything. That I was helping raise money for kids in third-world countries who had no food or tennis courts.

Emilio opened the door to his suite and stared at my nose. ‘What is wrong with your face?'

I put a hand on my cheek. ‘What do you mean?'

He leaned right in. ‘There is something wrong with your skin.'

‘Oh, that. I'm peeling. Sunburn, you know.'

‘It is very unattractive, Emily.'

‘Actually, it's Erica.'

His gaze dropped to my chest. ‘You are wearing
mi amuleto
?'

‘Oh yes.' I patted my chest. ‘Safe and sound under here.'

‘I like to see it. It makes me feel . . . how you say . . . secure.'

‘It's there. Don't worry.'

‘I want to see it.'

Teresa came to my rescue. She appeared from her room next door and called out, ‘Let us go, my darling!'

Inside the marquee there were giant posters of Emilio with a forced smile, surrounded by laughing, grubby children. He was a very good actor. I was sure he'd rather have been somewhere else. Somewhere like the massage room at Crown.

I sat by Emilio's side listening to boring speeches, remembering with relief that time was in fact moving forward, which meant that every second I was closer to the end of the tennis tournament. Although, thinking about that also meant thinking about the real lucky charm and that I needed to get it back. And I thought about the work I wasn't getting done while I was sitting there. And Charlotte Johnson, who had said to me, ‘Just give me instructions and I'll get on with my work.'

‘Instructions . . . instructions . . .' I'd looked around for inspiration. Finally, I'd sent her to the canteen to see if she could help there.

JD had bought a table at the charity lunch, and so had Martin McGann, which I thought was strange, considering what Martin had said on the news about Dega and the explosion. Maybe he was there to show the media he had no hard feelings, but sometimes when I looked in his direction, I caught him staring at JD's table or mine, and never in a friendly way. I wondered if Martin had had a bad relationship with Shane, and that's why Shane turned out so awful. But then, look at me and my mother. It's a wonder I didn't turn out rotten.

JD gave a speech, saying how proud Dega Oil was to be Emilio Méndez's sponsor, and how proud he was of Emilio's choice of charity, to whom Dega had donated a shitload of money. He didn't say shitload. I snuck off to the loo and checked my silenced phone, listening to messages. I had some from media wanting responses about the explosion; other media wanting an interview with Emilio's new girlfriend; from Marcus, telling me that Charlotte had finished making scones in the canteen; from Rosalind, wanting to know where her stapler was; from Steve, asking how I got on with the appliance shopping; from Mum, wanting to know if I wanted fried or grilled flake with tonight's fish-and-chips order. (Doesn't she
know
? Doesn't she know I always have grilled? And that I don't eat shark?) But not from Jack. No messages from him.

I got back to the table in time for Emilio's speech. When he was called to the lectern by the MC, Emilio gave my hand a squeeze, stood and smiled broadly at his adoring audience, then bounced up the steps to the stage, his ebony hair slicked back and tied in a ponytail, looking for all the world like Antonio Banderas in
Zorro
, only better – a mask would have completed the picture. I had an unwelcome fantasy and checked to see if anyone noticed. At the lectern Emilio held his arms wide, encouraging more applause. His teeth were so white. I sighed. He was gorgeous and I
did
feel proud to be sitting with him. But what was I thinking? I wasn't Emilio's girlfriend. I wasn't
anyone's
girlfriend. Not that I needed a man, except to take out the rubbish and get the spiders. I supposed, if I thought about it, putting the rubbish out wasn't so hard.

As Emilio started to speak, a sudden shout from the back of the marquee caused everyone to turn and look. Two men – masked, armed men – came into the room, weapons raised. A woman screamed. The men's masks were stockings pulled over their faces, making them look grotesque. I made a quick note of their body shapes and sizes, as taught by Jack. One man stayed by the entrance – short, skinny. He shuffled from foot to foot, head swivelling. The other man was much taller with a belly that bulged over his trousers. Short and skinny, tall and fat. Tall and Fat shouted, waved his gun and people dived to the floor. I sat statue-still. The man moved through the room and I wondered where the security guards were. Maybe they'd been killed, like in the movies. I pulled my phone off the table into my lap. JD and I locked eyes momentarily. We were probably both thinking the same thing:
Wish Jack was here
.

Some of the guests were on the floor and under the tables. Most, like me, sat in their chairs.

Emilio said into the microphone, ‘What do you want?'

Tall and Fat shouted something. I didn't understand what he said. No-one seemed to know what he said.

Emilio said, ‘We cannot understand you, my friend.'

The man shouted again. Was it the stocking that made it so hard to know what he was saying? Was he even speaking English? I looked down at my phone and dialled Jack's number. I couldn't hear if it was ringing, but I could tell it had been answered, either by him or his message bank. The man shouted, getting angrier and frustrated because no-one seemed to know what he was saying. He grabbed a woman by the arm and people screamed. I didn't dare bring my phone to my ear. Instead, I dropped my head onto my crossed arms on the table, pretending to cry. ‘Siege at Rod Laver.'

Did he hear me? Was he even there?

The man dragged the sobbing woman from her chair and held up her wrist, indicating her watch, then he waved her handbag around. This was a hold-up? Just a robbery? Everyone got the message. He moved quickly through the crowd, collecting valuables, tearing necklaces from women's throats. Shorty stood near the entrance, gun raised. Fatty took JD's wallet and watch. He approached Martin McGann who made a big fuss. I kicked my handbag out from under my chair and, with my toe, pushed it under the table. No way was I giving up my wallet that easily. Fatty rushed onto the stage, demanding Emilio's watch. Good move on the robber's part – Rolex was one of Emilio's sponsors. Emilio refused to hand it over. The robber shoved him, knocked him down. Emilio tried to stand and the robber put the gun to his head.

‘No!' I jumped up.

The robber looked at me.

I sat again, mouth clamped shut. He came at me, pulled at my T-shirt. He put the gun between his legs and shoved his hand down my top. I screamed, gripping his wrist with both hands. I brought my foot up, kicked at the gun, caught his knee. He yelled out, grabbed my hair. He had the amulet in his other hand. I felt the chain break.

The man yanked on my hair and I released his arm to save my wig, but he snatched it right off my head. The pins tore my own hair out by the roots, and he'd pulled so hard he overbalanced and fell backward with a squeal.

Emilio shouted, ‘Unhand my Emily!' and ran toward us.

From the floor the man raised his gun.

I screamed, ‘Emilio!'

I kicked out at the robber; the gun skittled across the floor. He scrambled for it. JD snatched up the gun and aimed it at the robber, who fled, screaming, from the room with his friend.

And then there were distant sirens, lots of them.

When the police rushed into the room, Emilio was sitting on the floor, hugging his knees.

‘But Emilio, it's just a thing.'

He glared up at me. ‘It is
not
! I cannot play tennis without it!'

‘Of course you can. You're the best player in the world!'

Until he'd discovered the loss of his precious, Emilio had been concerned about me and whether I was traumatised, in need of hugging, whatever. I'd confessed, thinking it would mean nothing compared to what could have happened, and secretly pleased that I'd been saved from having to find the real one. ‘I'm so sorry, Emilio, he took your lucky charm.'

I'd thought Emilio would brush it off, say something like, ‘It does not matter, as long as you are safe.' But instead he'd collapsed to the floor and hadn't moved, apart from the slight rocking back and forth. Teresa was with him, running a hand over his back in rhythmic circles, murmuring soothing, mother-type noises.

I found my handbag where I'd left it, and sneakily checked my reflection in my hand mirror. Like a jack-in-the-box, my curls had sprung out from their squashed position, celebrating a new-found freedom.

A police officer approached and asked to speak to Emilio. Teresa told him Emilio obviously couldn't speak to anyone right now. I could see Jack at the marquee entrance with JD. I made my way quickly through the tables, overturned chairs, the distressed guests to Jack. He looked me over, spending a moment too long on my hair, and my peeling nose.

‘You're okay?'

I nodded. ‘I didn't know if you'd answered or if I was leaving a message.'

‘I answered.'

‘Did you call the police?'

‘Yes. And so did others.' He nodded at Emilio. ‘Is he okay?'

‘No. They stole his lucky charm.' I'd tell Jack about the fake one, but not yet, in case someone overheard. ‘Ripped it right off me. They obviously knew what they were after.'

‘I'll speak with the police,' JD said, and walked away.

‘It's lucky no-one was shot,' I said.

‘Gun wasn't loaded.'

‘What? The robber's gun?'

Jack nodded. ‘Empty.'

‘Oh.' What did that mean?

We looked at each other. This was familiar territory, us together following some kind of life-endangering event. The aftermath usually, eventually, involved some love-making. He'd probably want to take me somewhere private for a cuddle and debrief. He'd be worried, for sure.

‘You were wearing a wig last night.'

‘You weren't supposed to notice!'

‘It was pretty obvious.'

I fiddled with a rebel curl. ‘Did you like it?'

‘I like
your
hair.'

‘Just as well, because the bandits stole my wig.' I huffed. ‘How embarrassing.'